


Draw Your Bow Across the Strings of My Heart

by ladydeathfaerie



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Bring a box of tissues, Clint Plays The Cello, Language, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:25:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/pseuds/ladydeathfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't mind being the worlds greatest marksman, but there are times when he'd like to be able to use his hands to create something rather than destroy it. This passion for creation sees him learning to play the cello in his spare time. </p>
<p>Tragedy almost destroys his passion. Its a good thing his friends won't let that passion die.</p>
<p>Contains some spoilers for the movie, so those who have not seen <i>The Avengers</i> yet should be wary and continue at their own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw Your Bow Across the Strings of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer:_ i don't own any of the recognizable characters and creations contained within this story. they all belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. there is no money being made from the writing of this fiction, and no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Clint's filled with guilt and might be a little self-destructive in this story. just so you know. the death occurs off screen. 
> 
> inspired by and written for the people in the ccfeelschat because they're just awesome that way.

The long, low, mournful notes of the cello sigh through the room, filling the air with longing and need. He watches as graceful fingers glide and press the strings, as the bow dances back and forth over those same strings to produce a song of melancholy and beauty that is beyond mere words. There is talent in those hands, and a love for the music can be seen in the relaxed pose of his face. His eyes are closed, his lips pressed together loosely as his whole body moves to the rhythm of his song. It is times like this, when he's lost in the notes, that real peace settles over his face. 

There are many facets to Clint Barton, and most of them are unknown to the world at large. He usually shows people what he thinks they expect to see. Sarcasm and snark are the order of the day. A faint sense of arrogance that go with his extraordinary skills as a marksman. A certain swagger in his walk that suggests he's a ladies' man. An inclination to disobey orders. A penchant for mayhem and destruction. 

They are all lies. And, yet... They're not lies. Because each lie Clint tells with his body language, with his actions, with his looks, is based in a fundamental truth. Clint is all of these things without actually being these things. He's earned the right to hold to these lies, yet he uses them sparingly. He uses them to protect who and what he is, to hide away the truth that lingers in his heart.

The truth is, he's merely a man who loves and wants to be loved. 

A hard order to fill in his line of work. Secret government agents don't have much by way of free time and honesty. Not when it comes to family. Not when it comes to loving someone. Most agents are not lucky in matters of the heart. Clint is one of the lucky ones, one of the lucky ones who has found someone to share his life with. Someone to love. And Phil is lucky to be the man he loves. 

Theirs is a relationship long in the making. Phil is the one who recruited Clint, who convinced him that joining S.H.I.E.L.D. was in his best interests. _Only an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D. can truly appreciate the skills that you've spent a lifetime cultivating and refining._ It had taken much talking to bring the younger man into the company, and it was during that talk that Phil had first noticed the lithe, animal grace that lived in each of Clint's movements. It was then that Phil had discovered that there was much more to Clint Barton than a smart mouth and perfect aim. It was then that Phil had decided that, just perhaps, he'd like to peel away each and every layer that hid the real Clint from the world so he could discover who the man really was.

Years will pass before Phil gets his wish. Years of missions and handling. Years of seeing more than everyone else. Years in which he believes that he will never be able to rid Clint of those layers like he's wanted to do since the very beginning. But the chance comes after a particularly bad mission. They're stuck in the middle of nowhere, awaiting an evac, and Clint is in a dark mood. Phil coaxes him to talk about it, to get it out of his system. One thing leads to another and getting it out of his system takes on an entirely new context. 

From that night on, they are a couple. It is an odd relationship because they're able to separate the professional from the personal. When they're working, when they're on a mission, they never let on that there might be more between them than a handler/agent relationship. No one knows that they are a couple. No one suspects that Clint is anything other than a snarky, smart mouthed marksman and Phil is nothing more than an unassuming, paper pushing agent handler. And when they're home, they are simply Clint and Phil. 

It isn't until they've been dating for about six months that Phil discovers Clint's secret. Of all the things he ever learns about his lover, this is the one that most surprises him. And yet, it doesn't. Not completely. To this day, Phil knows he is the only person other than Natasha who knows that there is such a deep and amazing side to Clint. 

When there are no missions, when the world doesn't need to be saved, Clint goes out every night for a few hours. Usually, Phil is at work when it happens, so he has no knowledge of his lover's outside activities. Not at first. But there are no secrets that Clint can keep from him for long. All it takes to discover that there is something Clint hasn't told him is Phil leaving work early one night and arriving home in time to find Clint leaving. So Phil waits for him to return, as silent and patient as ever. 

When Clint comes home, he's surprised to find Phil waiting for him. And he's carrying a case that Phil easily recognizes. One brow goes up silently, his gaze latched onto the instrument with intent. Clint sighs and settles into a chair, his deft fingers already tugging at the zipper that keeps the nylon case closed. "I needed an outlet that wasn't physically destructive," Clint tells him. As he speaks, the ever lowering zip exposes mellow, gleaming wood stained a rich cherry color. "I'm good at destruction. I wanted to do something where I created. Music seemed a good way to go. I learned to play the piano as a child and I have a passing fair voice. But I wanted to do something that requires more than one part of me. I wanted to do something that used all of me." 

The cello is obviously old, likely second hand. There are spots where the stain is worn down to the wood's natural color. But the cherry stain gleams with polish and care. Much love has been put into keeping the cello looking as new as possible. Clint's hands reach to extend the endpin, to lock it into place so that he can rest the instrument between his knees and against his chest. 

"Why the cello?" Phil asks, as if Clint's short reason explains everything. And, really, it does. Clint is not a man of long, intricate explanations. There is no reason, because he is, at heart, a simple man. Thus he gives simple answers. 

"I love the depth of the notes and the general air that surrounds the music it makes," he replies, left hand reaching into the case for the bow. His right fingers are brushing the strings, making light sounds so that he can ensure it is still properly tuned. The bow is shifted to his right hand so his left can reach up and adjust one of the pegs. "The violin and the viola are too high pitched. They tend to come off sounding out of tune. The cello is deeper. Mellower." 

After making a few more adjustments, the bow glides across the strings. A single note flows from the instrument, haunting in its simplicity. Then Clint's eyes close and he's swept up in the music as that single note solidifies into a tune. His left hand fingers the strings with intensity and precision while his right hand slides back and forth just above the bridge with long, beautiful strokes. Phil recognizes Bach's Cello Suite number one, the notes tripping over one another, sliding up and down the scale in a flowing cascade of amazingly perfect sound. 

Clint is lost in the music, his body becoming one with the instrument. Together, they sway back and forth ever so slightly while his hands work at drawing forth every single ounce of emotion that the cello has to offer. He only plays the first movement, no more than a couple of minutes worth of the song. But it is very much enough to tell Phil that he's damned good at making the instrument sing. 

He doesn't applaud when the last vibrations of the last note fade, but its a close thing. Instead, he waits for Clint to set the bow down and open his eyes. There is a look in them that suggests he's wrung out from playing, that exposing this part of himself to Phil has drained him physically. Perhaps it has. There was far too much heart and soul in the music, everything that Clint is shining through each note until there's no telling where the man leaves off and his music begins. The room is silent when Clint begins to put the cello away. 

"That was beautiful," Phil tells him softly, meaning every word of it. "Why didn't you tell me before?" 

"I haven't told anyone," Clint admits, his eyes not looking at Phil. And, suddenly, Phil understands. Clint believes that he'd be laughed at if people were to learn about his desire to create something beautiful. 

"Your secret is safe with me," Phil reassures him. 

And it is. Over the course of their relationship, only one other person has ever been allowed to know about Clint's musical talent. And that was purely by accident. Then again, considering its Natasha who discovers the fact that Clint plays cello to unwind and feel human, perhaps it isn't entirely by accident after all. Phil is sure that Natasha knows things about Director Fury that even he doesn't know about himself. That is simply Natasha's way. 

Clint plays with a small community orchestra. Whenever they hold a concert, Phil makes a point to attend and lend his support to Clint. Once or twice, Natasha attends with him. Clint always looks handsome and well put together in his tuxedo. And he always falls into the music he plays as if it is the only thing that keeps him sane. Some days, Phil has to believe it is. 

"How long have you been watching me?" Clint's voice brings Phil out of his thoughts. He's sure that the other man knows exactly how long Phil's been standing there, watching him. Remembering. Phil offers him a faint smile and watches as Clint returns the well used, much worn cello to its soft case. 

"Long enough to know that you need a break," Phil replies casually. It isn't strictly the truth, but it isn't a lie, either. Clint seems to realize the reason behind the statement because he carefully sets the cello aside and stands. His back arches, his hands reaching for the sky as he works the kinks from his spine. "Come with me. I have something for you," Phil motions for the doorway. 

Clint nods and follows him out into the living room of their house. Phil turns to find Clint's eyes locked on the dark wooden case standing near the door. The wood is glossy with varnish and sealer, silver clasps on the side to hold the case closed. The expression on the younger man's face is one that Phil will always remember, equal parts anticipation and disbelief. His gaze swings back to Phil, a silent question in them. "Phil?" 

"Happy Anniversary, Clint." 

Clint's face is a mask of awe as he crosses to the case, runs his hands down the smooth wooden surface. Fingers that are capable of death lovingly flip open the clasps. The lid swings open to show a brand new cello resting on a bed of deep, royal purple velvet. He only stares for a while, his gaze sliding up and down the body of the cello time and time again. As if he can't believe that this is real, that the instrument is for him. Then, ever so slowly, his hands reach out so that he can run his fingers down the length of the body. 

The cello slips from its resting place with little fuss. Clint's hands are gentle with the instrument as he brings it out of the case so that he can run his hands over every single curve and line. His fingertips drift across the strings, bringing to life a few faint notes that sing on the air even after he's removed his hand. He takes several long minutes to study the cello, to run his hands over the entire body, to tease soft, somber notes from the strings. Then he's studying the bow, drawing it over the strings experimentally. The sound he creates is eerie and beautiful all at the same time. Finally, after his inspection is complete, Clint turns to look at him. There is wonder and joy on his face. His eyes are bright and alive with emotion. 

"Damn, Phil. Its beautiful! Where did you find it? I've never seen a cello this beautiful before." There is real appreciation and gratitude in Clint's voice. No one has ever given him such a gift. Phil is glad to be the first and he lets his smile grow. 

"Its custom made, Clint. There isn't another one like it in the world. I wanted to get you something special for our anniversary." 

There are nearly tears in Clint's eyes, wonder and amazement fighting for control of his face. He gently props the cello against its resting spot in the case so he can cross the room to where Phil stands. Clint tugs him into his hold, his arms tight around him, and kisses him until there's no breath left in either one of them. There is heat and tongues and promises made in the kiss, a hint of things to come. They break when the need for air is greater than their need for each other. Phil takes a seat on the couch and motions toward the cello. "Play something for me. I want to hear how it sounds." 

Clint nods and moves to retrieve his new cello. The wood is a deep, rich cherry with a high, glossy shine. Clint carries it and the bow over to a chair, settles into the seat and drops the endpin out. One hand tightens it so that it remains lowered while the other plucks lightly at the strings to test the tuning. When the endpin is in place, he brings the bow into place and again test the tuning. A few turns of the pegs brings it to concert readiness, then he closes his eyes and pulls the bow across the strings. 

The notes echo from the cello, the tune familiar and much played. Bach. The first piece Clint had ever played for him. The smooth, mellow tones of the cello are hypnotic, a siren's call that snares both Phil and Clint. As he always does, Clint's closed his eyes and is moving with the cello, moving to and becoming one with the music. Phil's eyes are locked onto his lover's face, noting the sweet look of peace that has stolen over it. Phil loves Clint like this, when he's let himself go and allowed himself to be the real Clint Barton. Music brings him such joy. 

Much later, after Clint has played so much that his fingertips are red and sore, nearly bleeding, he returns the new cello to its case and locks it away. When that is done, when the cello is lovingly secured, Clint pulls Phil into his arms and kisses him until they're once again breathless. Tugs him toward their bedroom where he strips Phil down to nothing and spends the entire night lavishing attention on every inch of Phil's bared skin. 

It is dawn when they finally fall into exhausted slumber and Phil wouldn't have it any other way.

~*~*~*~*~

The world is safe. Loki has been dealt with. Despite the destruction brought about by the Chitauri battling the Avengers over New York City, all is as it should be. Loki is taken into custody by his brother and will be returned to Asgard, along with the Tesseract. The Avengers have won the day and Clint's helped them do it. He's tired and sore. His head still pounds from where Tasha slammed it into the railing. Despite this, there are still lingering traces of Loki's magic clinging to his grey matter. Nothing that will see him turning on his friends and allies again. Loki's full control is gone. But a few thin fingers still remain, fingers that tease him with promises of what could have been. 

A shower and pain killers will chase those thoughts away. For now, all he wants to do is return to the crippled helicarrier and face his punishment. He's sure that he'll face some kind of disciplinary action. He committed acts of treason. Loki's magic be damned, he got people killed. He killed people and destroyed property. There will be consequences for his actions. Knowing that the world is safe and he helped make it so, he can deal with those. 

What he really wants is to collect Phil and return to their house. To reassure himself that he's alive and well and back to his normal self again with long hours spent in bed, wrapped around Phil's body. He wants to trail his hands and lips over his lover's flesh. He wants to bite and nip and lick at all of the most sensitive places. He's found them all over the years, found and memorized them so that he can use them to his advantage. He's found that Phil is incapable of arguing with him about anything when Clint uses his tongue on the spot just behind Phil's knee. When he nips softly at the underside of his chin. When he uses his fingers to stroke and knead at Phil's feet.

Maybe tonight is the night he'll ask Phil to marry him. And maybe tonight is the night Phil will say yes.

A quinjet arrives to transport them back to the helicarrier and they all limp on board. Loki is in chains that Thor assures them he cannot escape. Fury apparently wants to have a word with him before Thor takes him home. Clint might actually feel sorry for Loki. Once they're all aboard and settled, the quinjet takes off and wings its way back to the crippled helicarrier. No one speaks the entire trip. 

Once they've returned to the helicarrier, they're all shown to a private conference room where Fury is waiting for them. Several suited agents are there to keep an eye on Loki, who is terribly subdued after having his ass handed to him. Perhaps having Hulk smash him all over Tony's living room has taught him a thing or two. Only time will tell and, at the moment, Loki isn't Clint's major concern. His gaze slides around the room, taking note of every face that is there. And of the one that isn't. He finds that mildly curious and might even ask about it, but his attention is drawn to the director when he starts speaking about the events that have just occurred. 

The room remains silent, Fury's dark gaze often times sliding off to the side where Loki stands. The dark god looks properly chastised and put in his place. But Clint has seen his kind of villainy before and he knows better. Unless Odin puts an end to the troublesome ass, Loki will be back. And Clint knows that the Avengers will be there to stop him. Even Thor's face suggests the same things Clint is thinking. He, of all people, should know how his brother thinks and acts. 

The debriefing is quick and to the point. Fury tells them about the World Security Council's call on the nukes. This earns him a knowing look from Stark, who wears that expression that says he's thinking things. Terrible and dangerous things. Fury only smiles and doesn't say anything about it. He just keeps talking, more or less telling them he's proud of how they came together and fought a common enemy, even if he doesn't really come out and say it in those words. 

Once the trade of information is complete and he has an understanding of just how things went, talk turns to clean up and what happens next. Clint is silent, still wondering why Phil hasn't shown up yet. Maybe Fury has him busy with some other task. Clint listens with half his attention, so that he can answer any questions that come his way or offer advice when needed. Most of his focus is on Phil. Why he isn't at the debrief. Clint can't come up with anything that might be more important than being here because the Avenger initiative is as much his baby as it is Fury's. 

Something has to be wrong. 

The debriefing finally winds down and Fury dismisses everyone. Thor rises and moves to take custody of his brother. They leave together, a small contingent of agents following after them. Tony and Bruce go next, their heads tipped together where as they converse about the impact of the alien invasion and how they can enhance the Earth's weapons so that they'll be ready the next time an alien race decides to try and take the world over. Steve is the next to go, his face a tight mask of what appears to be rage and sorrow. Clint rises to go, intent on seeking out Phil. Natasha seems to be lingering and there's an odd expression on her face. One he cannot quite understand. 

"Agent Barton. A word, please," Fury stops him before he reaches the door. He turns back to find the Director watching him closely with his one good eye. Natasha has frozen in place and, when Clint glances her way, she is giving him a look that seems filled with pity. A chill of foreboding slides down his spine. Something is very wrong. Fury's gaze slides toward Tasha and a nod sees her going on her way without another word. The Director motions with one hand. "Follow me." 

They're out in the hallway, walking in the general direction of the crew's cabins and medical. That same chill traces a finger up Clint's spine. Every instinct is screaming at him that Fury has bad news to give to him and, for the first time in a long time, the urge to run away and hide is so strong that he has to force himself to keep moving forward. If there's bad news to be had, the director might as well get it over with. "Sir? What did you want to talk about?" 

"I wanted to talk to you about Loki, Barton." The words are expected, yet not. 

"Of course, sir. I fully expect to be disciplined for my part in the events that nearly took down the helicarrier." Clint makes sure that there is nothing in his voice to give away how he feels about this. Fury merely snorts. 

"You were under Loki's control, Barton. You couldn't help what you did. There will be standard psych evals for a while, but it wasn't entirely your fault." Fury sighs and shakes his head. They have taken a turn away from the crew's cabin area. They're still heading vaguely toward medical, but Clint is fairly certain that isn't where they're going. "And that isn't what I wanted to discuss with you." 

"Then what are we talking about, sir?" 

Fury frowns, his face suggesting he's looking for the correct way to phrase something. Finally, he stops and turns to look down at Clint. "Barton, you know that I don't particularly care what my agents do in their off time. So long as you're capable of doing your job, what you choose to do behind closed doors doesn't matter."

Clint frowns at him. It sounds an awful lot like Fury knows his private business. "I've never known you to pry into a person's life without good reason," he agrees slowly. He isn't really sure he likes where this feels like its heading.

"That being said, Agent Barton, I want you to know that I've known for some time about your relationship with Agent Coulson." Fury starts walking again, prompting Clint to do the same. But after a few steps, the man comes to a halt again and gives Clint a penetrating look. "If anyone of the agents under my command deserved personal happiness, it was Phil Coulson. He dedicated his life to his organization. He was entitled to some happiness." 

_Was_? Fury is speaking in past tense. Why is he speaking in past tense? The chill that Clint felt earlier is back with a vengeance, stealing the warmth from his limbs even as he keeps pace with the other man. Clint is about to ask him what he means by _was_ when they stop and he glances up to see the sign mounted next to the door. Clint's heart freezes in his chest. 

They're standing before the closed door to the helicarrier's morgue.

"Sir?" The single word is hoarse and soft, every last bit of emotion he doesn't want to share with anyone clogged behind it. Fury gives him a look that, like Natasha's earlier, is filled with sorrow and pity. And now Clint understands why she'd been looking at him like that. And, quite suddenly, he wants to be anywhere but here. Because he does not want Fury to say anything more. He does not want to pass beyond the door before them. 

But Fury's hand touches the electronic lock beside the door and the panel slides open and they're walking inside and Clint is following even though he doesn't want to and there are so many bodies and he feels like he might actually be physically ill and... 

"Dr. Kimora. If you would excuse us, please," Fury says to the petite woman who is currently sitting at a desk. She looks up at them, her gaze soft and apologetic, then nods and stands without saying a word. The woman leaves the room silently, ensuring that the door closes behind them to offer them the privacy that Fury obviously wants. 

When Dr. Kimora is gone, Fury motions him toward a pair of swinging double doors. It is obviously the autopsy and body storage area. Clint doesn't want to go, but his feet are in motion without his consent, carrying him from the medical examiner's office to the cold, lifeless interior of the autopsy theater. Clint doesn't look at the stainless steel tables or the instrument trays. He doesn't look at anything at all, just keeps his eyes on Fury's back as the other man leads him toward another set of doors. Clint knows that they're heading for the refrigerated section of the morgue, where the bodies of his fallen comrades are being stored. Where the body of... Clint cuts off that thought even as he and Fury are passing through the doors into the cold storage area.

The director crosses to one of the many drawers without blinking his good eye. No doubt he's been here already and he's already memorized the names of every agent who was killed in the attack. Bile rises up Clint's throat, because all of the dead here... They're his fault. 

Fury tugs one of the drawers open and motions Clint over. He doesn't want to go, but his feet refuse to obey his orders to remain still and he finds himself crossing to stand at Fury's side. The director's hands are pulling the zipper on the body bag down and the panic is rising up inside of Clint. This can't be. Phil is _his life_. Phil can't be in the drawer because that means that Phil is dead and its his fault and... 

"I'm sorry, Agent Barton." Fury's words drop like lead into the room and Clint's heart stops in his chest. He can't stop himself from starting at the face that the opened zipper reveals. Phil lays there, so pale and still, and honest to god tears sting Clint's eyes. Clog the back of his throat until it feels like he's being drowned by his emotions. Like he's suffocating on them. He can't get any air into his lungs and he can't feel his hands and... _Oh, god! Phil! Not Phil!_ "Phil Coulson was my friend, Barton. I know just how much he loved you. I'm sorry." 

Clint's mouth works, trying to find words, but no sound comes out. Not for several long moments. When he finally does speak, its a single word and his voice croaks and cracks and breaks like the waves slamming hard against the rocks. "How?" 

"Loki stabbed him through the heart with his sceptre. Medical did everything they could. But there was too much damage and..." Fury's voice fades away into nothing. All Clint can hear is his heart pounding hard in his chest, slamming up against his rib cage as he struggles to take it all in.

One hand lifts, fingers trembling with the bitter rush of emotions and things left unsaid. He doesn't care if Fury's there to see his weakness. He doesn't care about anything just then. Because here's Phil and he's dead and its all Clint's fault because he fucking told Loki how to get on board the helicarrier and he planned it all out and he has no one to blame but himself and... There's an odd sound in his ears, something like a keening noise, and it takes him time to realize that he's making that noise. 

Grief fills him, tries to pull him under, as his fingers trace the familiar lines of Phil's face. The crooked bend in his nose. The way his lips press together. The soft tips of his eyelashes as they fan the upper curve of his cheek. The jut of his chin and the faint brush of stubble that covers it. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod. How is this real? How did this happen? How is Phil just... gone? He reaches up to brush his hand through Phil's short hair, relishing the feel of it against his calloused fingertips and palm. And it hits him, right then and there, that he'll never be able to do this again. 

He'll never be able to touch Phil again. Never be able to hold him. There will be no more long, sweet, lingering kisses that lead to the bedroom and more athletic pursuits. No more waking up to the feel of Phil at his back, one hand resting possessively on his hip. No more standing side by side doing dishes. Or having Phil looking over his shoulder as he cooks. He'll never hear Phil yell at him for jumping off a building again. Or for overdoing it down on the range. Or for leaving medical without the doctor's consent. There'll be no more conversations about bad reality television and music tastes and... 

Clint's heart seizes and steals his breath. He'll never get to tell Phil he loves him ever again. He'll never get to marry Phil. He'll never...

He'll never survive without Phil. 

He knows what people think of him. He's heard the gossip in the corridors when they don't realize he's there. But he knows they all think of him as being a one night stand type of guy. They all think he can't be serious about anyone and that there are almost as many notches on his bedpost as there are on Tony's giant bed. He knows they don't believe he could ever settle down and be happy with just one person. But they're all wrong. He's had a few one night stands, but he's never cared for them. He's only really ever had serious relationships. He falls in love too fast and too easy. Falls out of it too slow and too hard. And he is head over heels in love with Phil Coulson. And now there's no way to ever tell him that ever again. 

Clint's spine bends with the weight of his emotions, with the lost love and the guilt and the self-loathing and the rage, and he finds his head cradled on his arms. Arms that are crossed over Phil's chest, like Phil's there and he can lift his hand and run it through Clint's hair and tell him that everything is alright and he just needs to stop whining and buck up. And god, Clint wishes that would happen. He wishes that this was all some kind of sick, sad joke. But Phil's chest is cold and hard and lifeless under his arms and there's no pulse, no beating heart, no breath going in and out of his lungs. There is nothing but a giant, gaping hole in his life where Phil used to be. And that is Clint's fault. 

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, how much time passes while he huddles over Phil's body and indulges in his private misery. He doesn't know anything other than the sudden and consuming loss that fills him. Until, that is, a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, a soft and tentative touch that offers silent support and sympathy. He feels himself breaking, feels himself shutting down in the face of that sympathy. He doesn't deserve it. This is his fault and he doesn't deserve someone letting him know its okay to be sad and that they understand. 

Anger sees him straightening, pulling away from that touch, and he turns with the intention of... Doing something. He doesn't know what. Throwing a punch or yelling or doing _something_ to make whoever it is see that he doesn't deserve this. But he turns to find Natasha behind him and the expression on her face stops him. Because of all the people he knows, she understands what he's feeling best. She knows what's going through his head. And there on her face, as plain as day, is a single tear. It clings to her lashes, quivering as she holds in whatever emotion she's feeling. That tear is for him. And for Phil. For both of them. And it breaks him. 

"Clint, I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice throaty and low and _filled_ with everything she won't say to him. And it breaks him. He staggers back until his back slams against the wall of drawers, the uneven edges and hinges and handles digging into his flesh. His legs give out on him,   
seeing him on his ass on the cold tiled floor. And Tasha says nothing. She simply moves on silent feet to the drawer and takes a few seconds to say her goodbyes. The sound of the zipper being pulled up is loud in the silence of the room, then the drawer closes and she's kneeling before him, her hands reaching for his. "Clint. Stop. He wouldn't want you to do this. This isn't your fault." 

Her words break him again and the tears fall, hot and heavy and thick, as the guilt chokes him. Natasha does nothing more than hold his hands. She doesn't try to hug him because it isn't something she'd ever do. She simply lets him sob out everything he feels. It goes on for long minutes and she remains on her knees before him, holding his hands and silently offering him her strength. Clint knows he doesn't deserve it, but he takes it anyway. Because he needs it even though he knows he doesn't deserve it. He needs it. 

Eventually, the tears are gone and there's nothing left inside of him. He's hollow and empty and his ass is cold from sitting on the floor. Tasha rises to her feet and offers him one hand. When he puts his in it, she pulls him up easily. She's strong and silent and he's utterly spent. Completely empty. He's lost without Phil and somehow, he has to learn how to live without the other man in his life. 

In an uncharacteristic move, Tasha pulls him into a quick hug, her arms tight around him. As if she's afraid he'll disappear if she doesn't hold on to him. "I'm sorry, Clint. He loved you so much. Please don't blame yourself for this." 

She draws back and motions for the door. Clint follows her out of the autopsy theater, out of the medical examiner's office. Out into the hall, then to his personal quarters. Once inside, she drops a kiss to his cheek in another unexpected action, then she's gone and Clint's alone. 

And his heart is so empty.

~*~

The funeral is small and simple. The only people present are Director Fury, Agent Hill, Natasha, Steve, Stark, Banner, and Thor. Clint keeps himself separate from them, lets his grief consume him until he can't hear the words being spoken or see the looks that are being sent his way. He can only stare at the gleaming, highly polished wood of the coffin and the thick blanket of green and white and purple that covers it. The voice that has been speaking dies off and is replaced by music. And Clint's heart stops beating again. 

Bach's Cello Suite number one floods the small chapel. And all Clint can see in his mind's eye is playing that same piece for Phil. On his old cello. On the cello Phil had gifted him with. And that is followed by concerts played with the community orchestra. Phil in the audience, wearing a slight smile and clapping at the end. Of the occasions when Natasha was seated beside him. She's the only other one who knows of his love for the cello. 

There will never be another concert. Never another chance to play just for Phil. Once again, Clint is reminded just how much is life is over, just how much he's lost. How will he ever be able to look at his cello again without seeing Phil? How will he play it without hearing Phil's voice? How will he ever be able to touch it again? How will he ever be able to play it again? 

The numbness that's been slowly taking him over creeps ever closer to his heart. 

~*~

Life goes on, even though Clint doesn't really want it to. He dedicates himself to work, going on missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. when he isn't needed for the Avengers. He goes with the rest of the team when Thor and Loki return to Asgard and take the Tesseract with them. He manages to fake a smile and make them all think that there's nothing wrong with him. His training taught him how to lie and make it seem real, so that's what he does. He lies with his eyes and his face and his words and makes the others think that there's nothing wrong. Only Natasha knows the difference, the narrowing of her eyes on him letting him know that she sees through his poor disguise. 

He won't talk to her about it. He won't talk to anyone about it. He holds Phil and his death close to his heart, uses it on his missions. Wet work comes easier, the coldness behind his heart making it so easy to pull the trigger and rid the world of another egomaniacal villain. Each time he pulls the trigger, he sees Loki's face through his scope. He knows its a fantasy, knows that it isn't healthy and that Phil wouldn't want him to let himself become this person. But it is the only thing that keeps him going. Because he's still empty. 

So he throws himself into his work, goes on mission after mission and never stops to think. Because thinking reminds him of what he's lost. Thinking is bad. He works and works, because work fills the emptiness inside. He works and when he's done, he goes home to his empty home and stares at the cello Phil gave him for their anniversary and aches to draw his bow across the strings so that he can hear the mournful call of the instrument one more time. He stares and doesn't touch it because he just can't, because its all he has of Phil and it hurts too much. 

Because Phil is gone and its his fault and how can a man who has so much blood on his hands ever touch so beautiful an instrument and make anything but sorrow come from it? 

~*~*~*~*~

Tony watches Clint get up and stalk from the conference room, hands in fists at his side. He's noticed, and he isn't the only one, that Barton is slowly, gradually, slipping into the depths of what he can only label as depression. It takes so little to set the sniper off and he has a temper that could rival Banner's. Tony lets his gaze slide around the table to find that the rest of his teammates are watching Barton go with the same concern on their faces. Even Natasha, who is an epic ice queen, looks worried. Its been this way for months, ever since they faced off with Loki. So far, Tony hasn't found an acceptable answer to his question of why. And he's damn sure been trying to find it.

Ever since Barton moved into Stark Tower, the man has been on the edge of some kind of breakdown. Tony should know what that edge looks like because he's stood there himself a time or two. There's a look in his eyes, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he expects his teammates to turn a look of hatred and loathing on him. Tony knows, because he went digging through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s computer system, that Clint blames himself for what happened on the helicarrier all those months ago. Clint blames himself for Coulson's death, even though Loki had had Barton under mind control and Coulson had made his own decision. 

The guilt eats at Barton in a way few might not notice. Tony sees it because he's felt himself burdened with that kind of guilt before. Memories of Yinsen's body, bloodied and broken, assault him for just a moment. He pushes it away and focuses on Barton again. Tony understands that kind of guilt. He knows how its eating Barton up from the inside. The man is becoming more and more self-destructive as the days go by and it seems as if no one has a way to help him. Then again, Tony is sure the only one who sees Barton's downward spiral as sharply as he does is Natasha. And she isn't exactly the emotional, touchy-feely type. No doubt her idea of helping Barton would be to tell him to shape up or she'd kick his ass. 

Maybe that's what Barton needs. 

But then Tony remembers why Barton is so off the charts today and he reconsiders. They're a group of superheroes living under one roof. They're famous all around the globe. And on some planets no one has ever heard of before. Their notoriety is legendary and everyone knows where to find the Avengers. So its only logical that some villains will try to hit them at home. That means launching assaults on Stark Tower. Trying to attack the Avengers at home means an aerial assault because the security is too hard to get around. As it happens, some villain with more testicular fortitude than mental faculties decided to try that very tactic. 

The attack has resulted in the shattering of much glass and the destruction of Tony's very well stocked wet bar. Rooms have been reduced to rubble and there might be some question as to whether the structural integrity of the tower is still sound. Tony can't begin to imagine what his insurance premiums are going to look like after this. But he isn't the only one who has had personal property destroyed. Jarvis has reported that several of the floors have sustained damage. One of them is the floor that Barton has to himself. And it is that destruction that has seen Barton go off the rails. 

Natasha stands to go after him, but Tony slowly gains his feet and shakes his head at her. She stares at him, eyes wide with disbelief that he plans on talking to the other man. "You might not be aware, but I can be a very sensitive guy when the occasion calls for it. Let me go have a chat with him. I'll see if I can't get him out of his self-destructive funk. If anyone knows about self-destruction, its me. And Bruce. Bruce knows all about being self-destructive. Don't you?" 

Tony's mouth is going a mile a minute as he walks around the table. He reaches Banner's seat and pats the man on the shoulder, letting him know that his comments are in good fun because Tony knows just how screwed up he is. That lesson had been hard learned, but watching a friend die needlessly had brought it home to him just how fragile and precious life is. He's trying to live for the day, trying to seize the moment. And maybe its time that Barton starts doing it, too. 

"Tony, are you sure this is a good idea?" Steve asks, clearly still in Cap mode. And maybe, based on the look the old soldier is giving him, Steve sees exactly what's going on with Clint. So maybe he's not the only one who happens to be worried about the world's greatest marksman because (and how did Tony miss it?) they're all friends. More than that, they're an odd, dysfunctional family and they need each other as much as Tony needs his suit and his robots and his alcohol. They need each other in ways that a normal family doesn't because they've seen some weird shit happen and they understand that if it gets past them, then the world is fucked. They are quite literally the world's best hope and last defense. 

And they're incomplete without Clint's sharp wit and sharp aim at their sides.

"No, but someone has to talk to him and I've nominated myself." Tony makes sure he sounds sure of himself. They all look at him as if he's lost his head. 

"He's been walking a fine line since the helicarrier incident, Tony. You're just enough of an ass to make it worse. Maybe you should let one of us do it," Steve offers and stands. Of course he'll offer to go. He's the de facto leader and he feels that its his duty to ensure the team's morale. 

"No offense, Steve, but I don't know if you understand what's eating at him." 

"We all know what's eating at him," Bruce interjects, as if Tony's an idiot for suggesting anything else. There's a hint of exhaustion in Banner's voice that says Hulking out has taken more out of him than he's willing to let on. "He feels guilty for what happened. He blames himself for what Loki did." 

"Perhaps I should speak to him," Thor makes to rise. Tony shoots a scowl his way. "After all, I know Loki better than any of you. I know what my brother is capable of. You should have had more warning. I blame myself for not alerting you to his proclivities." 

"No," Natasha says. All eyes turn to her. She hasn't risen from her chair, but there's a new light in her eyes. One that might be called hope if it was anyone other than Natasha Romanova having it. "Tony's right. He should be the one to speak to Clint. I think he understands better than you think he does." 

The three remaining members of the group share glances with one another. But no one makes a move to go in Tony's place. He nods his thanks at Natasha, then strides from the conference room with purpose in his steps. "Jarvis? Where is Barton at?" he asks the AI as he crosses the floor toward the elevators.

"Agent Barton is on his floor, sir. I believe you'll find him in his private quarters. Or what's left of them," Jarvis informs him. Tony nods because, honestly, where else would Barton go, and punches the button for the marksman's floor. Tony considers, briefly, putting on the suit, but then decides that it would be pointless. He knows that Clint's problems are with himself, not with everyone else. Still, if the marksman is armed... 

"Jarvis?" 

"Yes, sir?" the AI drawls. 

"Does Barton have any weapons in his private quarters?" 

There's a pause, as if Jarvis is considering telling him a lie. Then, with amusement in his tone, he answers Tony's question. "No, sir. I cannot detect any weapons in Agent Barton's quarters." It sounds like his AI is laughing at him but Tony's sure this can't be because he never programmed Jarvis with humor or anything like that. 

The elevator halts on Clint's floor and the doors slide open to show him a large, central living area that is little more than debris made up of glass, wood, and upholstery material. There are a few walls still standing, load bearing walls that help keep the floors above from crashing down. Tony picks his way along the floor carefully, his eyes sifting through the trash to find the remains of a leather sectional and the darkly stained end tables matched to it. The casing of the giant, flat screen television is hooked on the arm of a chair. No wonder Clint is pissed. That TV was amazing to play video games on. 

Tony finds Clint in his bedroom. Or, rather, what's left of his bedroom. The bed is in splinters, as is much of the furniture in the room. The glass here is shattered and lays in small shards across the floor. Barton seems to not know its there as he kneels down amidst the ruins of... Tony frowns. He doesn't recognize what the cracked and shattered wood might be from. He has to stare at it for some time before the various large pieces of wood begin to make sense. 

He can see a pegbox, still attached to a small length of neck. The pegs are there, but the strings are gone. A short distance away, part of a fingerboard is laying up against the wall. The general body shape is still there, though its hard to see. The f-holes are there, but much of the instrument has been destroyed. The bow lays amongst what appears to be purple velvet, the hairs pulled and broken. The entire thing is shattered beyond repair. 

For a moment, Tony is about to open his mouth and make some smart-assed comment. But Barton's hand reaches out and gently strokes over the bow. Grazes the remaining bits of the instrument. Then his hand fists and the comment dies at the back of Tony's throat. For once in his life, he ignores the urge to poke and prod until he discovers every last thing. He slips from the room as quietly as he entered and tries desperately to push aside the image he's now got of Barton in his head. It is an image of a man who is broken and shattered. Tony has no idea what its supposed to mean. 

There is a puzzle before him and he now has to figure it out. So he heads for his personal work space, thankfully spared in the attacks. The elevator ride is made in silence as his mind ticks over on what he's seen and what it could possibly mean. Theories and questions and more theories run through his head until he can finally step foot in his workshop. He closes the door behind him and draws a breath. "Jarvis," he begins.

"I've taken the liberty of securing the doors so that no one may disturb you, sir. And I'm already compiling all of the data and footage I have of Agent Barton since he arrived at the tower." 

Tony starts, then realizes that Jarvis probably has a better idea as to what's been going on in his own tower than he does. So he moves to his chair and settles in, his hands already flying over the keyboard. "Tell me everything you know," he says.

Images spring to life before him, ones he's not sure are real. They are images of Barton sitting in a chair in his room, a gorgeous cello cradled between his knees. His left hand caresses the fingerboard while his right draws the bow back and forth over the strings. There is audio and the sounds that come from the instrument are haunting in their beauty. Barton's eyes are closed and his face relaxed, as if he has found some sense of peace in the music he plays. Perhaps he has. How many times has Tony gotten lost in the rock he plays while he works? 

"Agent Barton has been playing the cello for nearly more than ten years, sir," Jarvis says, his voice soft and reverent. Tony has never seen Barton like this before and he is loathe to speak, to break the spell the man's abilities have cast over him. "The cello you see him playing here is a one of a kind, made especially for him." 

The footage changes, switches to a moderate sized auditorium. There is an orchestra on the stage, men and women clad in tuxedos and long dresses. Its easy to spot Barton among them, his hands moving over the cello's fingerboard with such certainty that Tony has to remind himself that the man is a deadly sniper with perfect aim. There is something enchanting about seeing him play as if he's never taken a life. As if he's never fought a desperate battle against overwhelming numbers. As if he's never known a moment of death or grief in his life. 

The camera swivels and pans the audience. And Tony is startled to see a pair of familiar faces among the crowd. Its hard to miss Natasha's flame red hair. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are soft. The music has obviously affected her. But its the face next to hers that really throws him for a loop. Phil Coulson sits there, a look of intense pride in his eyes. One hand taps the chair in time to the music. Tony studies it further and realizes that it taps in time to Clint's notes.

He isn't sure what he's seeing, but Tony knows that it is an important clue. And he's just a touch mad because he can't figure out what it all means. He's always assumed that Clint and Natasha are doing sleeping with one another because that seems like something they'd do. There's a closeness between them that they don't have with anyone else on the team. And Tony's always suspected that her ice princess routine is just that. But this image... It doesn't confirm or deny his suspicions. In fact, it only brings about more questions. 

"When was this shot, Jarvis?" 

"Only two months before Loki used the Tesseract to possess Agent Barton's mind, sir," the AI answers. "I believe--" 

His words are cut off by a soft, husky voice just behind him. "That's the last time Clint performed on stage. After Phil's death, he almost stopped playing altogether. But the music lives in his soul and he couldn't stay away from the cello. It was the last piece of Phil he had." 

Tony turns to find Natasha standing there, watching the footage of the concert with eyes that look moist. He opens his mouth to demand to know how she managed to get in when Jarvis has everyone locked out. Then her words sink in and he has to catch up with his brain as it goes off on its own. Finally, he looks back at the video footage and watches as Clint practically makes love to the cello. Ew. Mental image he didn't need. But everything starts to click into place and he wonders how he didn't see it before. "He and Coulson?" he asks. 

Natasha nods. "They kept it quiet because it was just for them. And they didn't allow their personal feelings to get in the way of their work." She pauses and watches as Clint plays a solo, the echoing notes made by his cello bringing Tony's skin up in goose flesh. 

"Until now," he says quietly, because now Tony really understands. 

"Until now." Natasha sounds almost wistful, but Tony has to be hearing things because this is Natasha. The Black Widow. She has no emotions. "The cello was a gift from Phil on their anniversary. It was custom made and there isn't another one like it in all the world. It was the only thing that kept Clint sane these past few months. Now that its gone..." Her voice fades, but she doesn't need to speak the words for Tony to understand what she's hinting at. 

"He blames himself for Phil's death, doesn't he?" Tony asks, his mind moving at the speed of light again. So are his hands, fingers typing in instructions faster than he can really think about them. 

"He does. He believes that if he hadn't been taken over by Loki, Phil would still be alive." There is a hint of derision in her words, as if she thinks that Clint is being an ass about it all. Tony has to agree. He's seen the footage and Coulson had done what he'd felt was right. He'd done his job. 

"He's an idiot," Tony remarks casually. 

"He is," she agrees. "But I'm worried about him, Tony." 

There are no further words from Natasha. Tony doesn't need to look over his shoulder to know that she's crept away as silently as she arrived. She's told him all she feels he needs to know. And he knows that she'll deny telling him such things if anyone else asks, even under pain of death. Her friendship with the marksman is odd and strange. Tony doesn't want to understand why. So he turns his attention to his new task.

"Jarvis, what do we know about that cello?" 

"It was custom made by a gentleman in Poland. Agent Coulson ordered it over the phone and it took the artisan several months to complete. There is a waiting list of approximately tw--"

"Put the call through now, Jarvis," Tony says, his mind already made up. The AI is still rolling images of Clint playing the cello, the haunting melody filling the room. If this is what it takes to bring Clint back, to make him see that there are still people here who care for him, then so be it. The Avengers need Hawkeye. And Tony, Natasha, Steve, Bruce, and Thor need Clint. For better or worse, Fury has turned them into a family. Its dysfunctional at the best of times. But its still a family. And their family is hurting. Tony has realized over the past few months that family is everything. Especially the one you make for yourself. 

"Sir, I don't think--" Jarvis begins, but Tony shoots a look at the ceiling that silences the AI. 

"Put the call through. Clint needs this. He needs us," Tony instructs. There is a heavy, disapproving silence, then the AI makes a noise like a sigh and the digital sounds of a telephone being dialed takes the place of the beautiful cello music. Soon the sound of the line ringing through fills the air and still Tony watches the way Clint moves as he plays his cello. 

Tony can see the love that Barton has for the cello in the way his left hand moves against the fingerboard, the serene look that resides upon his face. He holds the cello like he would hold a lover, with tender care and deep adoration. His thighs clasp the instrument as if it were his lover. it is something that Tony has never seen before. Oh, he's seen the way Clint caresses his bow and his arrows, but there is a different kind of emotion behind that. This is almost disturbingly like love. 

It makes Tony wonder just how well he and his teammates really know one another. 

Finally, the other end of the phone picks up and an accented voice answers in what Tony has to assume is Polish for hello. He draws a breath and, after a second to wonder just why in the hell he's doing this, he starts to speak.

~*~*~*~*~

"Agent Barton?" Jarvis' voice fills the elevator and startles Clint out of his dark thoughts. He holds back a curse and flicks his glance toward the panel beside the elevator doors. It is from this panel that the voice issues and Clint is sure there's a camera there, too. Just like there are two at either corner in the ceiling. 

"What is it, Jarvis?" he asks, not really in the mood to chat with Tony's AI. 

"Mr. Stark has requested your presence in the conference room." 

Clint holds back the retort that rises to his lips. It seems to him that quite often lately, Stark has been doing his best to get Clint involved in just about everything that goes on within the tower. Come to think of it, the rest of the team has been, too. Any free time that Clint has has been spent at the tower. And there has been a lot of time because Fury has told him point blank that he doesn't want to see Clint near the newly rebuilt helicarrier or base. So Clint's nights and off days are spent at Stark Tower. Because there is a state of the art range located within the building and its every thing Clint could ever want in a practice range. 

He has to wonder what's going on that his entire team has been trying to force him into participating in things like movie nights and game nights. He isn't up to it when they get him to join them for such inanities. He isn't up to dealing with Stark at the moment. "Tell him I'm busy," Clint replies as the elevator slows for his floor. 

Before the door can open, the elevator is back in motion and its climbing its way up to the common areas. There is a hint of regret in Jarvis' voice when he speaks. "I'm sorry, Agent Barton. But I've been given express orders that you are to join Mr. Stark in the conference room. Immediately." 

"Damn it, Jarvis. Don't make me pull your circuits out of the wall," Clint snaps, but the AI is silent. No doubt ignoring him. Clint leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. Its a good thing that he doesn't have any weapons on him or Stark would find out just what its like to not have his suit on. Months of Stark trying to be his best friend have gotten on his last nerves and he really doesn't want to have to put up with him now.

The elevator slows again, then stops. The doors slides open to reveal the conference room before him. The doors to it are shut, leaving Clint wondering if he can sneak away without Tony knowing he was there. "Mr. Stark has been informed that we've arrived. He's given me instructions to lock you out of the stairwell if you attempt to go to your floor by the stairs and thereby avoid him." Jarvis doesn't sound at all put out by this bit of news. Clint mutters a few choice words under his breath, then starts for the door. 

His mind is putting together a string of good curses to throw at Tony when he gets the doors open. Its pretty shitty of him to force Clint to meet with him by getting his AI to use blackmail. The doors swing open wide at the touch of Clint's hands. "Stark, you'd better have a damned good..." 

His voice dies off when his eyes take in the fact that _everyone_ is awaiting him in the conference room. And they're all wearing such expectant looks upon their faces. Even Natasha, who isn't quite smiling. But its damn close. "Clint. Glad you could join us. We have something for you." 

And then Tony steps to the side and Clint's eyes are drawn to the large wooden case propped up against the wall behind him. The burl of the wood and the stain that darkens it is familiar and Clint feels an odd twist in his gut. Silver clasps run down one side. A dark purple bow rests atop the case. Its suddenly very hard to breathe as Clint stares at it and he's taken by a dizzying sense of déjà vu. His gaze slides sideways to Stark, who's smiling at him like the cat that caught the canary, ate it, and then went back for its friends. 

"Well? Don't just stand there with that idiotic look on your face. Come open it and see," Stark orders, his voice touched with a hint of acid. Not much, but enough to see Clint moving to do as he's instructed. 

The wood is as smooth under his hand as he remembers and his fingers tremble when they flip the clasps open. The lid swings open on silent, hidden hinges, revealing an interior of deep royal purple velvet. He stares and his throat catches, the words stuck behind a lump so big that he can't even swallow it down. 

The cello is exactly the same as the one Phil had given him, exactly the same as the one that had been destroyed. He can see the ebony that the turning pegs and fingerboard are made out of. The mellow stain of the body is rich and warm, and Clint swears that the burl of the wood used to craft the body of the cello is exactly the same as the one that had been destroyed. The bow is made of pernambuco and it gleams darkly next to the cello. 

His gaze swings around to look at Tony, who wears an unbearably knowing smirk on his face. He lets it slide to each of the four remaining people in the room. Each of them is wearing a hopeful expression. And Natasha is nearly crying. Nearly smiling. He turns back to Tony and shakes his head. "I don't understand." 

"Its an exact replica of the cello that got destroyed. Its made by the same craftsman that Phil commissioned. We wanted you to have it," Tony tells him, as if that's supposed to explain it all. 

"We're your family, Clint," Steve is saying, pulling his attention from Stark and the cello. There's a soft look on his face. "I know we can't replace what you had with Agent Coulson, but we're still here for you." And its plain to see by the way Steve is watching him that he knows just what Clint had with Phil. They all do. Again his gaze slides back to Stark. 

"Hey, don't look at me, buddy. I didn't tell them," he protests.

"Of course he did," Bruce replies, a touch of laughter in his voice. "But only because he wanted to let us know why you were taking Agent Coulson's death so badly."

"Tony is correct," Thor adds, as if he doesn't want to be left out of the conversation. "We see you as a brother. And we only wish for you to be happy. If this is what it takes to make you happy, then this is what we will do for you." 

"Play it for us, Clint. We want to hear it," Natasha says softly. There is some emotion caught in her voice, but Clint lets it go. He doesn't want to examine it too intently because he doesn't want to know just what it is she's feeling. There's already far too much for him to take in as it is. 

"Aye, my friend. Make it sing," Thor encourages.

For the first time in a very long time, a sense of something that isn't quite embarrassment washes over him. But with it comes a deep, strong longing that he cannot ignore. The cello is a thing of beauty and he can't not play it. He gives a nod, not sure he can trust his voice, and moves to the case to gently remove the cello. The bow comes next, as well as a cake of rosin that is tucked in there. He takes all three items to the nearest chair and settles into it. After rosining up his bow, he lets his fingertips glide across the strings to test their pitch. He lays the bow on the table, along with the rosin, and reaches up to turn the pegs until the strings sing to him. 

A moment of panic hits him after he picks the bow back up, his mind searching for a piece that he can play. In the end, only one piece comes to mind and he smiles as he positions the cello between his thighs, rests it against his shoulder. 

She fits perfectly between his legs, a lover made for his touch only. After positioning his left hand on the fingerboard, he draws the bow across the strings and lets her sing for everyone else. She has perfect tone and her notes are crystal clear, hauntingly beautiful and mournful all at the same time. Bach comes to him easily, the notes of the cello suite rising up to fill the room with a cascading waterfall of her song.

Clint falls into the suite, the music calling to him in a way that only music has ever been able to do. There here and now slip away on a tide of long, drawn out notes that roll over him like drops of water. They bring him new life and refresh him. The cello is a thing of beauty and he coaxes each and every note from her with ease and grace. She sings under his touch, crying out the passion that he brings to life with the glide of his bow across her strings. The song is comforting in a way that nothing else can be for him at the moment, almost like the ghostly touch of Phil's hand on his shoulder. The caress of his mouth on Clint's. The feel of their bodies pressed next to one another. 

Its such a beautiful lie and he lets himself believe it, if only for a minute or two. But all too soon, the suite ends and the music fades into nothing. Clint's fantasy shatters when the last of the notes falls silent, leaving behind the haunting presence of Phil's ghost. Clint leaves his eyes closed, incapable of looking at his teammates. He doesn't want to see their pity. Or their surprise. Or their disgust. Or whatever it is they feel. He only wants to bask in the remembered love that the cello has brought him.

But the lie breaks apart and slips away from him as one set of hands starts clapping. Then another. And another. The steady applause pulls Clint's eyes open and he finds that each of his teammates are clapping for him. And each of them wears a different expression. On Steve's face, he sees the same look of awe and wonder that the man gets when he has time to trace images into his sketch book. Thor wears a look of surprise, the good kind that makes his eyes light up and his smile stretch broad and genuine across his face. Bruce is silent and contemplative, a kind of serenity showing in his gaze that Clint thinks he hasn't seen in a long time. Tony's eyes shine with fierce pride as he claps his hands, his mouth twisted into the hint of a true smile. Not the patented Tony Stark smile that he uses when dealing with the press or people he finds to be idiots. Which is pretty much everyone. Its a real, honest smile. 

And then there's Tasha. Again, there's a tear in one eye. Just one tear. And it hasn't fallen. Nor does it make her look sad and soft. It gives one the impression that she's all woman, yet fierce and strong and capable of doing anything she sets her mind to. It is a good look, a strong look. A look that comes as close to happiness as he's ever seen her.

It is those looks that break him, that shatter the thin and brittle shell he's managed to build around himself. Because he realizes that Tony is right. They are his family. They'll always be there for him. He'll never stop missing Phil, never stop loving him. But he can't cut himself off from everyone and everything that makes his life worth while. Phil wouldn't want him to do that. Phil wouldn't let him do it. The cello cradled between his thighs is proof of that. 

Clint rises slowly and returns the cello to its case with gentle hands. The wood is warm under his hands. Its as beautiful as the one Phil had given him. And just as treasured. When everything is in its place, he finally turns to look at them. The applause has died down and now they are simply watching him with welcoming eyes. "Why didn't you ever tell us that you could play so beautifully?" Steve asks, breaking the spell that had fallen over them. 

"I was afraid what people would think. I'm too damned good at destruction. I wanted to be good at creating, too." They all stare at him as if its a stupid explanation. Perhaps it is. He ducks his head and shrugs slightly. "What can I say? I'm good with a bow. Any bow." 

Tony grins, broad and wide, letting them know he's thinking something. Something Clint suspects he isn't going to like very much. 

~*~

He can't see beyond the lights that shine on the stage. Not even with his perfect vision. But he can feel the life that fills the seats hidden in the darkness. He knows that there is a full house tonight. Surprisingly, even knowing that, he isn't nervous. This feels like home for him and he relishes every minute of it. Its been far too long since he's sat in this chair and played for a crowd of people. Far too long since he's allowed himself to be this open and free. It feels even better than he remembered. 

The cello nestles between his thighs, vibrating with the notes that he slowly pulls from it. The sound echoes in his ears, painting vivid images in his head. Fills the auditorium to the seats. There are other cellos playing beside him, along with a handful of basses. Violins and violas add in their higher pitched, sweeter sounds. Each note rises to the ceiling until he can hear nothing more than the sweet music that the group is producing. 

The cello is a thing of beauty, her body curved and warm to his touch. She fits him perfectly, responds to him like a well-known lover. His hands caress her as they coax the long, low notes from her. Her melody is haunting. And she's all his. She sings for him. She cries and moans only for him. Every sound she makes is beautiful. 

Finally, the last of the notes fade away and leave the echoes of themselves hanging in the air. The lights dim as the crowd beyond the stage breaks into loud, boisterous applause. When his eyes adjust, Clint can see his teammates, his friends, occupying one row. They're all there, sitting side by side and applauding just as enthusiastically today as they did the day Tony presented him with the cello. There is pride and joy in their eyes and on their faces. There is real happiness there. 

And they're not the only ones. Fury is there, a surprise for Clint because he didn't think that Fury ever did anything so mundane as listen to an orchestra play. Sitwell and Woo. Delancey and Jackson. Maria Hill. They are all there and they are all applauding. Clint finds it amazing. 

The orchestra takes a bow and Clint dips with them. 

When he rises, he can feel the warmth coming from the cello. He can feel the wood still vibrating as if he'd only just finished playing it. And he can feel the warm touch of a hand at his shoulder. He knows Phil is there with him in spirit. 

Clint will never get over Phil's death. He'll never love another living soul the way he loved Phil. But he knows now that his life isn't over. He'll be able to go on because he's got his friends, his _family_ , there to help him get through. He's got Phil's memory to keep him going. And he'll always have Phil's love. 

As he stands in the bright light of the spots and takes another bow, he swears he hears Phil's voice in his ear. _"Draw your bow across the strings of my heart and teach me how to sing."_


End file.
